


That's Not How You Act

by opal_earrings



Series: Adventures of the Official Avengers Mascot [5]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Amnesia, Gen, Not Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Compliant, Post-Spider-Man: Homecoming, Rated teen for language, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, inspired by a john mulaney bit, stupid Peter parker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-10
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:07:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27496918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/opal_earrings/pseuds/opal_earrings
Summary: "Peter was fine. Other than having no memories, he was fine. He wasn’t really hurt, so it wasn’t like he was going to die or anything, and therefore it wasn’t that big of a deal, right? He could just keep this quiet so as to not worry anyone.“No. I, uh, I’m fine, thanks.”All Peter had to do was find out everything about his life before anyone discovered he had amnesia. How hard could that be?"Or: Peter wakes up with amnesia, but this guy in a suit seems really worried about him, and Peter's too polite to mention it.
Relationships: Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Series: Adventures of the Official Avengers Mascot [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1803133
Comments: 42
Kudos: 446
Collections: underated irondad





	That's Not How You Act

**Author's Note:**

> Hi!! Hope everyone's well! This is absolutely not what I'd originally planned for the fourth part of this series, but my original plan just really wasn't working out, so here we are! This is inspired by a John Mulaney bit about amnesia, because I was listening to it one day and it just instantly reminded me of Peter. It seemed like exactly the kind of dumb move Peter would pull and I just knew I had to write a fic about it. So I hope you enjoy! Happy reading! <3

Credit where credit’s due—the psychos with alien weapons terrorizing Manhattan had perfect timing.

Peter and Ned had just left school following a decathlon meet—decathlon didn’t stop for summer, according to MJ—when Peter’s newly updated Stark Phone buzzed urgently. Peter pulled Ned aside, fished his phone out of his pocket, and unlocked it, wondering if Mr. Stark was updating him on their plans to head to the compound that evening. Instead, a deceivingly boring notification popped up. Peter’s face split into a wide grin.

Ned, who had been discussing the latest rumors about the upcoming Star Wars movie, trailed off when he spotted the notification.

His face lit up. “Is that—?”

Peter’s grin was answer enough.

Ned gasped. “Oh my God—dude, do you even realize how mental your life is? What’s happening? Is it bad? Do I need to hide in a subway station and prepare for the worst—”

“What? No! Why is that always where your mind goes?”

Peter scanned the notification again as they made their way off campus. The Accords committee had finally approved Spider-Man to join the Avengers on missions, which meant Mr. Stark had updated Peter’s phone so he could receive the call to assemble.

The _call to assemble_. Insane.

“Ugh, it’s just some guys with alien stuff near Avengers Tower. Again. You’d think they’d stop trying the same thing after the third time we stopped them.”

“Dude, that is awesome!”

“Last time some guy almost dissolved me with a ray gun. Steve’s shield is my hero.”

“Sick!” At Peter’s frown, Ned quickly shook his head. “I mean, not sick. Just— _wow_. How many people can say Captain America saved them from getting _dissolved_?”

Peter shrugged. “He owed me one. Remember that time _I_ caught _him_ and saved him from becoming a star-spangled pancake? Anyways, gotta swing. I’ve got Avengers to keep in check. Tell you about it later!”

***

“’sup guys!”

Peter landed on a rooftop next to Clint in a blur of red and blue spandex. He offered Clint a wave, then turned to scan the street below. There were several guys with mean-looking guns gathered behind abandoned cars, shooting bright, colorful beams at law enforcement.

“Great, the little asshole’s here,” said Sam.

“Glad you finally decided to show up, kid.”

Peter ignored Sam’s comment. “No problem, Mr. Stark!”

As he scanned the street below to try and assess the battle plan, Peter realized that other than Clint, and some sporadic sightings of Iron Man, he couldn’t see any Avengers.

“Uh, are we just spectating today? Where is everybody?”

“That’s where you come in, Spidey,” said Steve. “You see that guy by the overturned taxi? He’s giving us some trouble. You think you can handle him?”

“Okay!”

Oh God, that really wasn’t okay. Shit. What if he messed up? No. Don’t think like that. Positive vibes. MJ always talked about manifesting positivity, and Peter wasn’t really sure what that meant, but he was sure it applied to Spider-Man.

The bad guy in question fired his gun, a particularly violent burst of blue light that exploded the overturned taxi. “Any idea what that gun would do if I took a shot to the face?”

Natasha chuckled. “Our game plan is _try not to find out_.”

Great. “You guys do know I’m Spider-Man, not Guinea-Pig-Man, right?”

“Team mascot is expendable. You should know this by now.”

“Thanks, Sam,” Peter grumbled.

“Any time this year, kiddo,” said Mr. Stark.

“Right, on it!”

Peter jumped off the roof, immediately catching the attention of the gun-wielding maniac. Quick as a whip, Peter webbed the gun out of the bad guy’s hand before he could pull the trigger. He webbed it to the side—to a wall about five stories up, sorry to whoever had to collect that—and swung away just as something bright purple shot past him.

He landed lightly on the building across from Clint. The bad guy had pulled another gun seemingly from nowhere, likely the source of the purple blast. Sure enough, a moment later his Spidey-sense screamed and Peter flipped away, the window next to his head shattering in a green explosion only moments later. A flick of Peter’s wrist and the second gun was hanging from a streetlight.

Peter dropped to the ground in the middle of the street as the rest of the Avengers joined the fray.

“Hey, last year called. It wants its evil masterplan back—”

Peter rolled to avoid the bad guy’s punch, then his Spidey-senses flared just in time for him to trip over a low kick. He landed heavily, chin bouncing on tarmac. With a groan, he rolled over and he just managed to catch a punch aimed at his face.

The bad guy snarled. “ _Spider-Man_.”

“Yeah, yeah. You can get my autograph if you let me web you up first.”

Still on the floor, Peter swept the guy’s legs out from underneath him and scrambled to his feet. A flick of each wrist and he left the guy stuck to the ground.

He turned to assess the street around him: it was a chaotic blur of Avengers and colorful explosions. He nodded at Natasha as she clotheslined a guy with her leg.

Peter turned and jumped in alarm when he found a gun in his face. He swiped a panicked, uncoordinated hand at it just as the bad guy cried out and fell to the side. Embedded in his shoulder was an arrow.

Peter startled and whipped round to look up at Clint, who threw his hands up in despair.

“Kid, what did I tell you about giving away a sniper’s position?”

Peter winced. “Sorry!”

Mr. Stark’s voice came through the comms. “Focus up, kiddo. You’re doing great.”

Peter beamed at the compliment. He looked up at the sky and saluted Iron Man as he flew past—

And walked right into a blast of blue energy aimed straight at his head.

Peter was out before he hit the ground.

***

It was the rumbling of an engine that eventually woke him.

Unconsciousness clung to him, but he was awake now, so he forced his eyes open and looked around curiously.

He didn’t recognize his surroundings at all. It almost looked like the inside of a plane, only much smaller, with huge, geometric windows in the roof near the cockpit. He was lying on some sort of stretcher pushed up against the wall. To his left was a man he didn’t recognize, dressed in an expensive-looking suit. They made eye contact and the man’s face lit up.

“Peter?” the man cried, discarding the phone he had been fiddling with.

He blinked. Peter? Was that his name?

The man leaned in and brushed a lock of hair away from Peter’s eyes, stress lines visibly melting from his face. “Shit, kid. Thank God you’re awake. Dammit. You really know how to put the Avengers out of commission, huh? Hope you enjoyed your little nap while the rest of us were running around like headless chickens.” He sighed, weary, and ruffled Peter’s hair. “I’m instigating a house rule to ban inexplicable comas, okay?”

Peter stared at him. The only thought his brain was capable of producing was: _what?_

At his silence, the man drew back, signs of worry creeping back onto his face. “Pete?”

He needed to say _something_. “Um, yeah?”

Was that really all he could come up with?

The man’s eyebrows pinched up. “You feeling alright, kiddo? You’ve gotta talk to me if something’s wrong, cause we’re kinda working blind here until we figure out what they shot you with. No pain? Nothing feel off?”

He’d been _shot_? He didn’t feel any pain.

Should Peter mention the fact that he couldn’t remember anything, not even his own name? Or who this guy was, how they knew each other, or what the hell he was referring to?

That kinda felt like something he should maybe mention. It definitely “felt off”.

But one look at the obvious affection in the guy’s eyes made Peter’s stomach churn with guilt. He looked happy that Peter was awake, and Peter didn’t really want to worry him again.

And besides, Peter was fine. Other than having no memories, he was fine. He wasn’t really hurt, so it wasn’t like he was going to die or anything, and therefore it wasn’t that big of a deal, right? He could just keep this quiet so as to not worry anyone.

“No. I, uh, I’m fine, thanks.”

All Peter had to do was find out everything about his life before anyone discovered he had amnesia. How hard could that be?

“Glad to hear it.” The man’s voice was teasing. “The people of New York would never survive without their favorite superhero.”

Oh, crap.

***

There were so many names. How the fuck was Peter supposed to remember all these names?

Apparently they were at some place called The Compound, and Suit Guy offered to show Peter to his room because apparently they’d never been here before, which was good. An unfamiliar location meant he could get away with being a bit more of an idiot.

Suit Guy kept talking about Friday. Peter didn’t even know which day it was, let alone when it was going to be Friday. He just hoped that wasn’t important.

And it wasn’t like Peter was keeping up with anything else Suit Guy was saying, either.

“…and while you were busy with naptime, Spangles managed to take out the last of our big baddies. Oh, Clint and Natasha want to have words with you about sniper etiquette again—seriously, Pete, I thought Steve drilled that through your head enough already. You just can’t get enough of Rapping with Cap, can you? Gotta be honest, he’s got a great voice for lecturing.”

There was a pause in Suit Guy’s gibberish as if he were expecting a reply.

“Oh, yeah—no, it’s a great voice. Great, um, timbre.”

A teasing nudge. “Wrong answer. Iron Man is your favorite Avenger, that’s not debatable.”

Peter was panicking. Who was Iron Man? Had Iron Man been mentioned yet? He couldn’t keep up. There was Cap, who might also be Steve, and Clint and Natasha and now Iron Man. But someone had to also be Iron Man, right? That wasn’t a name. So that only made everything more confusing. Oh, and then there was Spangles, which sounded more like the name of a dog. Peter really hoped there was a dog.

And apparently they were all superheroes?

This was a disaster. He was so gonna get found out.

“Anyways, it’s Vision’s turn to make lunch, so naturally Wanda is making lunch. Wash up—spandex and eau de teenage boy are not a good combination, kiddo—and dinner will be ready in about twenty minutes. Then we’ll be training. Oh, and Cho’s off duty now, so if you feel anything wrong, I want you to tell Bruce, okay?”

They’d stopped outside a door with a stylized spider embossed in the wood at around eye level.

“Okay,” Peter said, feeling intimidated. Suit Guy clearly cared about him, but there was something so confident and suave about his demeanor that made Peter feel like he was gonna trip over his words if he tried longer sentences. Maybe it was the suit.

“You trying to get rid of me? Come on. What will you do if something’s wrong? I want to hear you say it.”

“I will tell Bruce,” Peter repeated, trying his hardest to sound like he knew who Bruce was.

So many names. Too many names. Had Suit Guy repeated one even once?

“Atta boy,” said Suit Guy. His gaze was steely. “I’m going to be honest. You seem kind of out of it. Good thing we have Friday to let me know if you die of any alien-y aftereffects, right, girl?”

 _Alien?!_ But Peter didn’t have time to think about that, because Suit Guy’s last sentence appeared to be aimed at the ceiling. Peter glanced upwards, and almost jumped out of his skin when the ceiling actually spoke back.

“Of course, boss.”

Suit Guy winked at him and then left, leaving Peter alone with his racing thoughts. Oh, he was so screwed. He shared a house with a couple hundred people, and _superheroes_ at that, and also the ceiling could talk.

He was _so_ screwed.

Peter guessed the bedroom with the spider on the door was his. Inside was sleek and clean, a blank slate ready to be personalized, which wasn’t really helpful for the whole jogging-Peter’s-memory thing.

He stepped inside and pushed the door shut behind him, but as he went to go investigate, something yanked him back. Peter turned, surprised, and quickly identified the problem. His hand was firmly secured to the door handle.

What the fuck?

Peter yanked on it. Was this some kind of prank? Why the hell was he stuck to his door?

A particularly hard yank and the metal of the handle creaked ominously. Peter jumped, startled, but thankfully, he was able to pull his hand away.

He cradled it close to his chest, defensive. What the hell?

Given that no-one jumped from the shadows to laugh, Peter had to assume that wasn’t a prank. His hand had just mysteriously stuck itself to the handle for no reason. Great. Cool. That was cool.

“Ugh!”

Peter rapped his knuckles against his forehead. This felt really bad. Sense screamed at him to tell someone what was going on—but every time he remembered how worried Suit Guy had looked, he just felt guilty.

He could make this work.

“Peter?” said the ceiling. “You appear to be in distress. Would you like me to inform Mr. Stark?”

He really wished the ceiling would stop talking, but more importantly, he just hoped the walls weren’t next.

“Uh—no, that’s fine, ceiling lady! You don’t need to get Mr. Stark.”

Who the hell was Mr. Stark?

This was the worst. But he had to keep his secret and recover his memories before Suit Guy found out.

 _For Suit Guy. For Suit Guy. For Suit Guy,_ Peter whispered like a mantra.

***

When the ceiling told him it was lunchtime, Peter followed the sound of voices until he was fairly certain he was in the right place. He immediately froze up. There were _so many people_ , and Peter didn’t recognize any of them aside from Suit Guy. If he even counted.

There definitely weren’t any dogs.

He shuffled into the open-plan kitchen-diner, feeling awkward. Immediately, the back of his neck started hurting, and a moment later a hand landed on his shoulder. He jumped.

“Ayy, the asshole’s alive,” said a man, patting Peter’s shoulder. “Maybe now Tony will give it a rest with the mother henning, huh?”

Peter smiled weakly, adding _Tony_ to his list of unattributed names.

The guy went to join a few people by the table, and Peter quickly scanned the room. There was Suit Guy, who was next to the bar talking to a kind-looking man with salt and pepper hair, plus the man who had called Peter an asshole and the people he was talking to—a woman with bright red hair, and a man dressed in a sleeveless black jacket. Over in the kitchen was a blonde-haired Greek statue of a man, along with a dark-haired woman and—what the—

Okay, one of the people in the kitchen was a purple man with a glowing yellow stone in his forehead. No-one else was mentioning it, however, so Peter quickly averted his eyes and hoped he hadn’t visibly startled.

Peter felt awkward hovering by the doorway. He needed to do something to avoid suspicion.

The dark-haired woman looked intimidating, and the purple man was kinda scary, so Peter crossed the room to where the blonde man was gathering cutlery.

“Do you need any help?”

Mr. Greek Statue looked at him with concern. “Only if you’re feeling up to it. You took quite a hit out there today.”

Before Peter could respond, Suit Guy shouted from the bar, “Uh, let’s hold off on the child labor at least for the rest of the day, Rogers. Pete? Go sit down.”

The blonde guy—Rogers—smiled at Peter, and with a shrug, Peter went and sat at the table. Black Vest, Red Hair Lady, and the Asshole Guy joined him. Red Hair Lady slipped into the seat across from Peter.

She smiled. “Feeling okay?”

That same feeling of guilt settled in Peter’s gut. “Yeah! I’m fine.”

After a moment, Red Hair Lady nodded and relaxed back into her seat. Oh, God. Peter _really_ needed to jog his memory sometime soon.

One by one every else joined Peter at the table. As Suit Guy sat down beside him, Peter did a quick headcount. Besides himself, there were eight people, which was a lot less than he had been anticipating. Now to just figure out which names belonged to which people and maybe he’d get away with this ruse.

Suit Guy offered Peter the ladle to serve himself first, so, a little awkwardly, Peter did. When he went to pass the ladle on, however, Suit Guy frowned.

“Is that all you’re gonna eat, kiddo?”

Peter froze, staring down at his plate. He was pretty hungry, so he’d given himself a fairly large portion. Did he normally eat more, and he’d just forgotten?

“I’m, uh, not feeling too hungry?” he tried, sheepish. “Cause I’m… kinda tired?”

Suit Guy’s forehead creased in concern. “Are you sure something isn’t wrong and you’re just choosing not to tell me? I know your track record, Pete.”

Peter, panicked, just stared gormlessly at Suit Guy. Before he had to scramble to come up with a response, however, the Asshole Guy interrupted.

“Stop fussing over your kid, Stark. I keep telling you, he needs a rebrand. Cockroach-Boy is gonna take off big time.”

 _Ohhh_. Peter didn’t bother listening to Suit Guy’s response—he was just happy that he was finally putting together some of the pieces of the puzzle. Asshole Guy had called Peter Suit Guy’s kid—which meant Suit Guy was his _dad_.

Peter blew out a breath. Thank God. Okay. That was one person down, and arguably the most important person to remember, given they were Peter’s parent.

The back of his head hurt again. Something told him to look up, so he did, and he found Red Hair Lady staring at him with a slight crease between her eyebrows. Her gaze was invading, like she was reading his mind, and Peter smiled at her uncomfortably and looked away.

Wait, what if she could read his mind? These people were superheroes, right? Peter glanced back at her, alarmed, but Black Vest had just passed her the ladle and she was busy serving herself. Peter shifted in his seat. She probably couldn’t read his mind, he reasoned, because if she could and she had any sense, she would have already called Peter out.

Not everyone was as stupid as him.

Peter shoveled food into his mouth and tried to tune back into the conversation.

“Maybe Stark can hold a press conference to request more creativity from our next supervillain of the week,” said Black Vest.

Peter’s dad shook his head. “I think we need to raise our standards. Alien weapons are a little below our paygrade. Next time I’ll just send underoos to handle it—demote them to officially not Avengers business.”

Asshole Guy snorted. “Today proved that alien weapons are a little above his paygrade, if you ask me.”

“You weren’t exactly the hero of the hour, either,” said Red Hair Lady.

“As the only one out there actually pulling their weight—” began Rogers.

Black Vest cried out, indignant. “Only one?”

“I also object,” said Peter’s dad. “Definitely saved your sparkly ass a few times out there, Cap.”

Peter perked up at that. Rogers was Cap? Good to know.

“Oh, and did you talk to Spidey about sniper etiquette?” said Black Vest. “If I ever die because of him, I will haunt him like one of those ghosts in that series he’s always forcing me to watch. You do believe in ghosts right, Spidey?”

There was a brief lull in the conversation. Peter reached across to serve himself some salad.

“Spidey?”

The back of Peter’s neck twinged with pain, then his dad elbowed him. Peter jumped and dropped salad all over the table. He looked up and startled at everyone staring at him.

“Um, what?”

Black Vest frowned. “Did you not hear me talking to you?”

No? Wait, was he Spidey? His mind flashed back to the spider embossed on his bedroom door. Dammit. He was a superhero, and his thing was spiders? All the animal kingdom to choose from and he went with _spiders_?

Oh God, everyone was still staring at him.

“No? I was… uh, I was lost in thought. I wasn’t paying attention. What—what did you say?”

Black Vest didn’t answer. Peter’s dad sent Peter a look that made him want to crawl under the table.

“Kid, you promised you’d tell someone if you weren’t feeling okay,” he said.

“I—I feel fine! I’m just tired!” That was his lie, and he was going to stick to it.

Oh hey—stick! Like a spider!

Peter shook away that stupid thought. “I’m just kinda tired. That’s it.” The more times he repeated the lie, the worse he felt. Everyone around the table looked so worried about him—but he couldn’t tell them now. He couldn’t. He was in too deep. They’d be so mad if he told them now.

His dad reached out to check his temperature, then abruptly turned back to his food with a worried crease between his eyebrows. Slowly, conversation started up again.

Peter resisted the urge to slam his head against the table. Had he mentioned how screwed he was yet?

***

After lunch was training. The purple dude and the kind-looking guy didn’t join them, which Peter was glad of, because he was already struggling not to have a panic attack about the fact he was never going to survive training. He didn’t need a purple dude there to make things worse.

He didn’t remember what they were training for, so how was he going to pretend to remember what he’d been taught? He didn’t even know what his own superhero powers were beyond getting stuck to door handles. He was about to get murked!

Peter trailed behind his dad as they made their way down to the training room. Maybe he could pretend to pull a muscle? Would that get him out of training? Did it work like trying to get out of gym at school? Would he need a doctor’s note?

He frowned. How did he remember stuff like _that_ , but nothing about his actual life? Did that count as a memory? Was he finally starting to remember stuff? Maybe his plan of faking it until he made it would work out after all!

They arrived at a set of double doors, and Peter’s dad turned to face him.

“I’m going to let you train,” he said, “but if you feel anything wrong at any point you tell me. Capiche?”

Briefly, Peter wondered which muscle would be easiest to fake—but then, with an internal sigh, he decided against it.

He tried to nod earnestly. “Of course.”

“ _Of course_ ,” his dad repeated incredulously, but he pushed open the double doors without a further word.

The room beyond was a huge gym, painted in gunmetal grays with equipment so robust as to look threatening. Everyone was gathered in a circle in the center of the room, several of them carrying bizarre equipment Peter could only guess the purpose of. Was the Asshole Guy dressed up like a bird?

Rogers looked up when Peter and his dad walked in.

“We all here? Great. Let’s pair off.”

Roger told Peter to pair up with someone called Natasha, which turned out to be Red Hair Lady. She approached him with a strange expression on her face and handed Peter two small, sleek pieces of equipment.

“You forgot to pick these up.”

“Uh. Thanks.”

Natasha stared at him, face unreadable, then turned away to deal with her own equipment, so Peter took a moment to examine the things she had just handed him. They were clearly intended to fit around his wrists, but they were so bizarrely shaped, with one thicker end and one end that tapered, that it took Peter a couple attempts to work out which way to put them on. The tapered end, he eventually worked out, was molded to perfectly fit in the palm of his hand.

The tapered end appeared to have a button of some sort. Peter glanced up—Natasha still wasn’t ready—so he examined the… whatevers around his wrist, trying to figure out what would happen if he pressed the button. The sleek, black casing held no clues, so curiously, Peter twisted his wrists this way and that and pressed the button.

“Aackgh!”

A nozzle near the heel of his hands spurted something cold all over Peter’s face. He stumbled, almost losing his balance in shock. He yanked his hand away, but whatever was on his face was incredibly sticky, and almost ripped his eyebrows off.

“Ow!”

Shit. His hand was stuck to his face. This was awful!

Natasha grabbed his elbow. “Peter? Are you alright?”

Peter’s dad grabbed his other arm.

“What the hell happened?” asked someone—Asshole Guy, maybe—, clearly amused.

“I—help me!” Peter begged, trying to pull his hand away again. “Ow!”

What the hell had Natasha given him? Were these his superhero weapons? They were useless! Why the hell were his only weapons these things that just sprayed something stupidly sticky like a nightmare super soaker? What was he meant to do with that? No wonder he got into this situation with the amnesia if that’s all he had to protect himself!

Peter’s dad went to speak but couldn’t get the words out around his laughter.

“What the—how the hell did he even manage that?” asked Asshole Guy.

Peter laughed awkwardly, panic bubbling up inside him.

“Please, this isn’t funny! I’m stuck!”

“Of course not,” said his dad, words still shaped by a smile. “Have you got any dissolvent down here?”

What? “No?”

His dad shook his head. “Of course you don’t. That would be useful. Natasha, got any knives?”

“What kind of woman doesn’t always carry a knife?”

“Not all women are ex Russian spies, but point,” said Peter’s dad. “Pete, you’ve gotta stay still unless an amateur enucleation job is on your bucket list.”

What the hell was an enucleation?

A few tense moments later, after multiple chorused warnings to “Stay still!”, Peter was finally able to pull his hand away from his face. Disgusted, he yanked at the substance still left on his face to little avail. It had dried and turned soft, almost like—

“How the hell did you manage to get stuck in your own webs?” asked Natasha.

Peter groaned, yanking away the last of the webs. Of course it was webbing. As if the whole spider-schtick hadn’t been bad enough already. Wow, he was really committed to the aesthetic, huh?

“I was just… testing them,” Peter grumbled, rubbing at the stupid things on his wrists. He stopped a moment later, terrified that he might accidentally set them off again.

“Right,” said his dad, unimpressed. “Peter, you’ve been acting weird all day. I’ve given you multiple chances to admit something’s wrong. You wanna just come out with it and fess up now, or do I have to get Steve to drag you to the medbay so we can find out what’s wrong for ourselves?”

Peter didn’t even know who Steve was.

“I’m fine,” said Peter stubbornly.

“Oh, so you haven’t been acting strange ever since the mission?”

“No.”

“Come on, Pete—getting stuck in your _own webs_?”

“I said I was testing them!”

His dad leveled him with an unimpressed stare.

“I swear! I’m just feeling kind of tired! And I needed to test my… uh, my equipment…thingies because I needed to—uh—make sure they were still working! You know? I promise I’m feeling fine, Dad. And I really will tell you if I start feeling unwell! Maybe… uh, maybe I just need to take a nap? That might help!”

Peter nodded earnestly, but his dad was just staring at him with an unreadable expression. In fact, the entire room had gone weirdly still—why—

“Everyone else heard Peter call Tony Dad, right? That wasn’t just me?” said Black Vest.

Peter, panicked, looked at Black Vest, then back to his dad. Wait, what? Was Suit Guy _not_ his Dad? Then why had Asshole Guy called Peter his kid—?

Natasha sighed. “I think I know what’s going on,” she said to Suit Guy, then grabbed Peter’s shoulders to turn him to face her. “Peter, can you tell me what happened the day we first met?”

“Yes.”

“Go on then.”

Peter didn’t even bother opening his mouth to try and come up with a lie. Instead, he stood there silently as the suspicion in Natasha’s eyes turned to disappointment.

“You’re so stupid,” she said, flicking the side of Peter’s head. He refused to look at anyone as she turned to the rest of the team. “I’ve been keeping an eye on him since the mission, and our little arachnid appears to have a bad case of amnesia. He heard Sam calling him Tony’s kid at lunch and must have assumed.”

Peter’s cheeks felt warm. He refused to look at Suit Guy—Tony?

“Amnesia,” repeated Tony, sounding as though he regretted every decision he’d made in his life that had led to this very moment. “Peter, you have _amnesia_?”

“No,” Peter grumbled.

“When’s your birthday?”

“May… fourth.”

“First up, that’s Star Wars day. Second—what the _hell_ , Pete? You didn’t think that this was something you should tell us about?”

“It didn’t… come up in conversation.”

“ _It didn’t come up in conversation_.” Tony massaged his left arm. “That’s it, I quit. Romanoff, you inherit responsibility for the Spiderling. You’re young, he’ll take a while to send you into cardiac arrest. Maybe you’ll even make it to his eighteenth birthday cause I sure as hell won’t.”

“Peter,” said Rogers, placing a hand on Peter’s shoulder. “How much can you remember?”

Peter sighed, giving up the charade. “Uh, English? How to walk. Should we check to see if I know how to ride a bike still?”

Rogers exchanged a look with Natasha. “Let’s get him to the Medbay.”

***

Peter blinked away the last of Wanda’s magic from his vision. Now that he remembered the Avengers, Wanda’s stony look of disappointment made shame curl in his chest.

“I’m sorry,” he choked out, shifting as Wanda climbed off his bed.

Her magic picking around in his brain drawing out his memories hadn’t exactly been the most pleasant experience. It had felt kinda like someone had attempted to remove his brain from his skull using a corkscrew, but it had been the only way to get his memories back quickly. Well, that or someone named Mr. Strange, but Mr. Stark had vetoed that immediately. _“That sparkly asshole and his magic carpet aren’t an option.”_

Wanda hummed. She glanced between Peter and Mr. Stark, then quickly and quietly took her leave.

The room was silent as the door clicked shut behind her. Peter chewed on his lip and refused to look at Mr. Stark.

Mr. Stark cleared his throat.

Peter glanced up at him, but Mr. Stark wasn’t looking in Peter’s direction.

Peter looked away again.

His cheeks burned at the memory of calling Mr. Stark Dad. Peter had never felt so embarrassed in his life. Dad. He called Mr. Stark his _dad_.

He didn’t suppose it would be possible to give everyone amnesia and just carry on like this day had never happened? Maybe Peter could swing by and talk to that Mr. Strange guy about it. As an added bonus, everyone would forget he’d been too awkward to tell everyone about his amnesia. That wasn’t exactly the best look either.

May was going to have a field day.

The room was silent for so long that Peter was beginning to wonder if Mr. Stark was waiting for him to get up and leave. Eventually, however, Mr. Stark cleared his throat again and got to his feet.

“Right. Well. I think today we’ve all learned a valuable lesson about letting the team know when something’s wrong,” said Mr. Stark, still not looking at Peter. “So don’t let this happen again, capiche?”

Peter shifted. “If I get amnesia again I won’t remember this conversation.”

Mr. Stark paused. “Okay. Yes. Point taken. You’ll be forgiven if you get amnesia. But otherwise, how about from now on we promise to mention it when things go wrong? Injuries, for example. Spiderlings should always make sure to tell the team about any injuries they’ve acquired. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Say it out loud, Peter.”

“I will tell the team about any injuries I acquire.”

Mr. Stark nodded. “Good. See? I can do the mentoring thing. Being the bigger man. Turning mistakes into lessons and all that. I know how to handle teenagers. Now. Let’s go to the lab and brainstorm ways to incapacitate a grown man.”

“Cool!”

And if the atmosphere between the two of them was slightly awkward for the rest of the day, and if the D-word was hanging over their heads the whole time—well. No-one had to mention it.

If Peter and Mr. Stark were experts in one thing, it was not mentioning things they should probably, definitely be talking about.

***

 **ned:** make sure u update me after the battle

 **ned:** bro

 **ned:** bro I saw you get hit in the face with some crazy gun are u okay

 **ned:** peter

 **ned:** peter srsly the video of you getting murked is all over twitter

 **ned:** are u alive????

 **ned:** peter

 **ned:** I called that happy guy but he didn’t pick up

 **ned:** where are u peter

 **peter:** sorry im alive I had amnesia lol

 **ned:** srsly???

 **ned:** ugh that means I made mj write spider-man a eulogy for nothing

 **ned:** …

 **ned:** wanna read it?

 **peter:** ooo

 **peter:** yeah sure

 **ned:** okay but just to warn u its not that flattering

**Author's Note:**

> wow this series is actually starting to develop an overarching plot... who'd have thought??


End file.
